The Spanish Word for Cloud

Sofia and her abuela sat on the back porch with two glasses of lemonade and nothing to do, which was Sofia's favorite kind of afternoon.

Abuela pointed up at the sky. "Mira, Sofia. That cloud looks like a conejo."

Sofia squinted. "A what?"

"A conejo." Abuela wiggled her nose and held two fingers up behind her head like ears.

"Oh! A bunny!" Sofia laughed. "Yeah, it does! And that one looks like a shoe."

Abuela tilted her head. "A shoe?"

"You know—a shoe!" Sofia kicked her foot up in the air and pointed at her sneaker.

"Ah, sí, sí. Un zapato." Abuela nodded slowly, then smiled. "A very big zapato."

They both laughed, and the bunny cloud stretched out long and thin until it didn't look like anything at all.

The next morning, Abuela was making breakfast. Something smelled sweet and golden, and Sofia came running into the kitchen.

"What are you making?"

"Tostadas con canela," Abuela said, sliding a plate across the counter.

Sofia looked down. "Cinnamon toast! I love cinnamon toast!"

"Canela," Abuela said again, sprinkling a little more on top.

"Ca-NEL-a," Sofia repeated, and Abuela's face lit up like a birthday candle.

At breakfast, Sofia wanted to tell Abuela about a dream she'd had. There was a dragon in it, and the dragon could swim underwater and had a best friend who was a very tiny fish.

"So the dragon went WHOOOOSH under the water," Sofia said, making a diving motion with her hand. "And the little fish was like, 'Wait for me!'"

Abuela watched Sofia's hands and laughed at all the right parts, but when Sofia said, "And then the fish got lost in the seaweed," Abuela's eyebrows scrunched together.

"Seaweed?" Abuela said.

"Yeah, seaweed! The green slimy stuff in the ocean?"

Sofia wiggled her arms like underwater plants. Abuela's face was still blank.

Sofia tried again. She stood up and swayed back and forth, making swooshing ocean sounds.

"Algas!" Abuela said suddenly. "Algas marinas!"

"Yes! That!" Sofia said.

But then she sat back down and poked her cinnamon toast, because it had taken so long to explain that she'd forgotten what happened next in the dream.

That afternoon, Abuela was watching her telenovela in the living room. Sofia could hear someone on the TV crying very dramatically, and then someone else yelling, and then a big blast of music.

Sofia sat down next to Abuela. "What's happening?"

Abuela started explaining—fast, excited, hands moving everywhere. "La mujer descubrió que su hermana es en realidad su madre, y ahora no sabe en quién confiar, porque el doctor también tiene un secreto..."

Sofia stared.

Abuela stared back.

"I don't..." Sofia started.

Abuela sighed softly. She patted Sofia's knee. Then she pointed at the woman on the screen, put her hands over her heart, and made a sad face.

"She's sad?" Sofia asked.

Abuela nodded. Then she pointed at the man on screen and made a sneaky face, eyes darting back and forth.

"He's lying!" Sofia gasped.

"Sí!" Abuela clapped once, delighted.

They watched the rest of the episode like that. Abuela would act out the parts Sofia didn't understand, and Sofia would shout out her guesses, and sometimes they were both completely wrong about what was happening, but it didn't matter because they were laughing so hard that Abuela's lemonade almost came out of her nose.

But that night, when Abuela came to tuck Sofia in, something quiet happened.

Abuela sat on the edge of the bed and started to say something. She opened her mouth, paused, then closed it. She tried again.

"Sofia... te quiero... you are..." She stopped. She pressed her hand flat against her own chest, right over her heart, and looked at Sofia with soft, full eyes. But the words she wanted didn't come—not in English, not in a way she thought Sofia would understand.

Abuela looked down at the blanket and smoothed it with her hand.

Sofia felt something pull in her chest, the way it feels when you really want to reach something on a high shelf and your fingers just barely brush it.

"Abuela?"

"¿Sí, mija?"

"Can you teach me? The words you want to say? In Spanish?"

Abuela looked up.

"Because," Sofia said, "I can learn your words. And then we can both say the same thing."

For a moment, Abuela didn't move. Then her eyes got shiny and crinkly at the same time, and she pulled Sofia into a hug so warm it felt like the sun had come inside.

"Sí," Abuela whispered. "Sí, mi amor."

They started the next day.

At breakfast, Abuela held up the plate. "Tostada."

"Tostada," Sofia said.

Abuela pointed out the window at the big tree. "Árbol."

"Árbol," Sofia said.

Abuela pointed at the sky, and Sofia already knew this one. She scrunched her face, thinking back to the porch.

"Conejo!"

Abuela burst out laughing and shook her head. "No, no, that's bunny! The sky! Cielo."

"Cielo," Sofia repeated, giggling.

By lunchtime, Sofia had learned twelve words. She practiced them while she played outside, whispering them to herself like little treasures she was putting in her pockets. Agua. Sol. Flor. Mariposa.

Some words were hard. She said "li-BRAY-ro" when she meant "li-BRO," and Abuela gently said, "That's the person who sells the book, not the book."

"There's a DIFFERENT word for the person who sells the book?!"

"Sí."

"Spanish has a lot of words, Abuela."

"Sí." Abuela grinned. "So does English."

That was fair.

A whole week passed. Sofia learned how to say "goodnight" and "I'm hungry" and "look at that dog" and "the telenovela man is lying again."

And one evening, back on the porch, with two glasses of lemonade and the sky turning orange and pink, Abuela pointed up at a cloud.

"Mira, Sofia."

The cloud was big and round and glowing at the edges, like it was wrapped in gold.

Sofia pointed up at it too.

"Nube," she said softly.

Abuela turned to her, surprised.

"That's the word, right?" Sofia asked. "The Spanish word for cloud?"

"Sí," Abuela whispered. "Nube."

They sat together and watched the cloud drift slow and easy across the sky. Then Sofia leaned her head against Abuela's arm.

"Te quiero, Abuela," she said.

And Abuela understood. And Sofia understood.

And there was nothing lost between them—just the sky, and the nube, and a love that finally had all the words it needed.